


Tremble

by helsinkibaby



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Community: 1 Million Words' August Rush, F/M, Grief and Loss, Het, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, mention of canon character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-08-08 04:41:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7743760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helsinkibaby/pseuds/helsinkibaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A nightmare - not his - wakes Sam up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tremble

**Author's Note:**

> August Rush Day 9 - picture of Pietro Maximoff

Sam wakes before Wanda does, the soft little whimpers and the thrashing of her body clueing him into the fact that she's having a nightmare. By the time she wakes with a gasp, sits bolt upright in bed, he's already turning on the lights, is padding across the room to the bottle of bourbon on the dresser. He pours her a measure and comes back to sit on the bed beside her, making no moves to touch her until she's damn well ready. He'd tried that, once, and the resulting dent in the wall is still visible as, caught in the nightmare still, she'd lashed out with her powers and sent him flying. 

It seems to take a long time before her fingers curl around the glass, brushing against his. "Thank you." Her voice sounds hoarse, like she's been screaming for hours. She sips the drink, her teeth chattering against the glass. He decides to take his chances, scoots a little closer. 

"You want to talk about it?" he asks, keeping his voice gentle. 

He's asked her that before and now, as always, she shakes her head. This time, however, a single tear tracks down her cheeks and it's that, more than anything, that makes Sam push where he's always backed off. 

"Sweetheart," he says, reaching out and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, letting his fingers linger on her cheek. She leans into the touch, just slightly, but enough. "I'm a trauma counsellor. And yeah, I wouldn't usually counsel someone I'm-" He pauses for a fraction of a second, cycles through euphemisms because whatever they are is spectacularly ill-defined, has been even since they started it at the Avengers facility. He finally settles on, "Close to," and a ghost of a smile lights her face. "But you need to tell someone what's going on in that pretty head of yours."

She sucks in a shuddering breath, knocks back a large mouthful of bourbon. "In my dreams," she says haltingly, "it's like it was when we were in prison." Her free hand reaches up, fingers her neck and even if the marks of the collar's injection sites have healed, he can still see them. "I see Pietro." 

Her voice falters on her brother's name and Sam's jaw clenches. He'd known, seeing her in that cell, that the drugs suppressed her ability, turned her into a human zombie. What he hadn't known, what none of them had known, was that the drugs turned her power against her, put visions into her head that, in her drug induced haze, she'd been convinced were real. He wonders if the scientists knew that was what would happen. Some days, he wonders if the drug was developed with that in mind. 

He reaches out, lays a hand on her back. There's barely any pressure involved but he can still feel her tremble. "His death?" 

"No." The word is somewhere between a chuckle and a sob. "He's alive. Fighting as an Avenger. Fighting over what movie to watch with Clint. Telling you that if you hurt me, you'll never see him coming..." She smiles at that and he smiles too. Her smile fades quickly though. "And every time I wake up..."

She doesn't need to finish the sentence. "It's like he's died all over again." He'd had his fair share of dreams like that after Riley died; as bad as reliving his friend's death had been, the dreams where they'd been shooting hoops, shooting the breeze, drinking beers in front of a football game, had been worse. 

"Yeah," she whispers and then it's like all her strength leaves her and she leans in against him, rests her cheek on his shoulder. The  hand on her back he slides around so that it rests on her shoulder, pulling her closer. The other hand takes the glass away, puts it on the nightstand before coming to rest on her hip. He presses a kiss to the top of her head and hears her whisper, "I miss him so much, Sam." 

"I know, baby, I know." Just like he knows that sometimes there are no words he can say, nothing that will take away her pain. All he can do is hold her as she cries so that's what he does. 


End file.
